


Acceptance

by anoinee



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: I have no idea how tags work, M/M, Some other character mentions, some dog, what am I even doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14033781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoinee/pseuds/anoinee
Summary: Chris doesn't handle the deaths of his acolytes well; that is approximately accurate if one may say. What makes Piers' different? Like in Jill's case, he searched meticulously, but reality hurts in a way that would make his conviction waver day by day until the hope for rescuing the sniper would simply vanish.Alcohol would work; it's his method of solving things after all, no matter how alarming and unhealthy it is. Running away is always another option; it's the easiest choices out there in Chris' arsenal. But he made a promise, and he's trying not to turn his back against his deceased partner. No more running away; it's time to confront his problems.But it's difficult--- difficult in a sense that he was forced to remain on an unfamiliar terrain called acceptance.





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> So, to start things off, I don't know why I wrote this other than the fact that I wanted to introduce myself with this story thing. I'm pretty bad at writing things, especially when it comes to fanfictions, but it's something I still want to try. So, therefore I would like to apologize for anything that makes this piece crappy as it can be.
> 
> On the flip side, I'd appreciate some criticism since I do want to improve my writing. I hope you enjoy it though!
> 
> The characters here are all under the ownership of CAPCOM.

_The bloodstained patch idly rested on his desk, tattered and rough around the edges. A man who wore a grim expression stared at it with a flickering hope in his eyes, asking for the impossible to happen._

_He heard footsteps echoing somewhere in a distant, yet his heed was solely directed at the insignia of his partner. He was waiting for a miracle; he was subconsciously praying for a happy ending he didn't even expect to ask for. Somewhere deep within cold reality and the war-scarred captain was a man wishing for his partner to live._

Dealing the events following Lanshiang is unsurprisingly difficult. At first, it's paranoia clouding his better self, acquainted by some stupid hope that bothered him day and night. He immediately commanded another team to find him--- find the man who decided it was a great idea to leave himself behind to die in martyrdom. 

Bullshit. It's utter bullshit. Chris would always exaggerate within his own confinement as he scribbled some reports he barely paid attention in, adding more pressure to the pen than normal. For a moment, he felt betrayed--- betrayed at the fact Piers suddenly revolted against his wishes and made an unnecessary sacrifice that was uncalled for. 

But it wasn't. Deep down, Chris knew what his ever-loyal partner had in mind right after he shoved him inside that pod. Even if Piers had not uttered a word after they entered the emergency exit, he could read it in his eyes. 

Those hazel eyes, once well-guarded, was vulnerable and surprisingly expressive then; Chris saw what he saw: he saw the apology before the acceptance. He saw rue underneath hope, indicating that Piers also didn't like the way fate played their game. Three years of partnership had taught him to inspect closer for the truth, and by doing that he had learned Piers' pair of sharp eyes was a lie detector at its finest. 

Anger was an emotion he can barely control; and who to blame when it comes to searching for its origin? Who to blame when the divers found no carcass or cocoon nor did they manage to scavenge whatever traces of C-virus is left in the depths of cold hell just to properly eliminate the said disease? Regardless of the circumstances, blaming was normal for him. 

He blamed Piers for his willingness to end his life in favor of his idol. He blamed those search team for not trying enough, even if he knew they did everything they can to recover the body. Hell, the depth of the ocean alone drastically lowered the odds of discovering the remnants of his body. Within each debris and fragments would be an underlying hope, but it was crushed as easily as it had been roused. 

Regardless, as time gradually flows, his rage abated day by day until guilt made way. He apologized to the divers for being an ass. He apologized to Command for being more of a liability rather than someone invaluable. He apologized to Jill, for shunning her out when she was merely trying to help him. He apologized to Claire for not letting Piers live. 

He apologized to thin air, hoping that the winds would deliver the message to one bright ace. 

There are times where he _felt_ his confession was answered; for his chest was alleviated from the burden tenfold. It was as if Piers had heard him and decided to spare him from the pain. And if Chris placed it that way, it gave him a sense of reassurance, knowing that even in death the stubborn ass was merciful enough to carry his burdens, disregarding the fact that he was the reason of it all. 

And there were times where he appeared in his dreams during this stage. What frightened Chris the most was the fact that his mind conjured a _perfect_ replica of the sniper. 

And truth be told: there were times he wanted them to be reality no matter how fabricated they were.

It wasn't unusual for Chris to seek warmth beside him whenever he woke from a reverie. It wasn't unusual for Chris to search for the sniper, who has a queer habit in ransacking everything the marksman owns in his fridge and pantry, in his home, only to realize that the man he was looking for was long gone. It wasn't unusual for Chris to silently spend his time hoping everything that had happened ever since Edonia was simply one cruel joke. 

It was normal, no matter how it constantly sends the man to continue on lingering in the past. Yet like all things, this feeling of want abated regardless of what he'd accomplished in the past few weeks. 

Eventually months passed after deeming Nivans a lost cause; they held a funeral service instead, casket empty and void of a body. Chris was there. Claire was there. Leon, Helena, Sherry, Jake (that came as a surprise considering their status during the whole shitfest was anything but cordial), Piers' family, the NA BSAA faculties, and some stray dog who was just passing by to bark at some other dog were also there, all (maybe except Jake) to honor the death of a promising man.

He wasn't furious, but he wasn't depressed either. This time, alcohol wasn't his cure; it was Claire. Claire, his little sister who managed to postpone her duties in TerraSave in favor of being a torchbearer to Chris' darkened path, was the replacement to what Piers had been albeit temporarily. Until he was assigned to a new Alpha team, Claire became his support.

"You were there for me when our parents died," she stated her reason sympathetically when Chris blurted why she kept on coming back to fill the numb in his conscience. "Let me do the same, Chris. It's the least of what I can do after you've done so much for me."

So he did. They talked about a lot of things during his recovery, but it was mostly Claire chattering like a chirping bird. They covered how their days have been; how Claire's job was eating her time for finding a love life; how Chris's condition was seemingly improving now that he had developed the habit of coping with dilemmas other than seeking solace from a cigarette or a booze; how Chris would be permitted to return to active duty once he was fit emotionally stable, how Piers once asked for pictures and got away with it; how Piers would've been with them, eating whatever chips Chris currently own; how Piers was simply being Piers.

It was difficult talking about a man Chris promised to take home, but this was one step to recovery that can't be missed. Without it, recovery wasn't recovery. Chris needed to know how to let go of the past, yet that alone was almost deemed impossible since the man carried the burdens of the world; what more of his lieutenant's death?

Acceptance was no easy road. For his part, there was countless of confrontations he had to face, most of them were mental. Physical confrontations were simply; he can punch them like how he punched inanimate objects to vent his rage. Mental ones were the challenges, and at times he abhorred them--- abhorred them in a way he just wanted it to end by rushing through the solution or not going through it at all. Running was easy; accepting wasn't. It's no wonder the legendary Chris Redfield often found himself running from a predicament in such a way he would almost be deemed as a coward.

So what did Piers see in him that he can no longer see? He didn't know; god that kid can be too immersive and deep at times. Chris laughed, a hollow one, and went somewhere else. When the beams of sunlight reached his skin, he found himself wondering what if it was raining somewhere else--- raining on someone else's mood rather than continuing what it inflicted to its previous victims. Well, when one does put it that way, metamorphically speaking, the rain might as well be considered as a sadist. 

If it was a sentient being, that is, a literal one, not some void puff of cloud whose existence is anything but perpetual.

Walking--- Chris did a lot of walking now that little by little the weight that ladened his back gradually ebbed. If he wasn't walking, he was ordering the Alpha Team, doing paperwork (because a certain _someone_ was no longer alive and he was left bombarded with a shit ton of papers that were making themselves comfortable on his desk), eating, smoking, and drinking. Henceforth, he was no longer surprised whenever he stumbled into some restaurant, although he could care less about its name, or some eatery to order steak and some beer; more or less, it's the steak winning this time.

He sat down--- not empty nor depressed, but neutral at best--- and waited. Time was ticking, yet he had no sense of impatience to just have his order and leave. He waited as if he would rendezvous with someone. He waited as if time was finally altruistic enough to spare him from the tyranny of the world even if it was only a short period of time. He waited as if he would see a man burst through the door, taking casual strides while hazel eyes were scanning the crowd to search for his normally drunk-ass captain.

But this time, Chris was waiting as if this would be the last chance he can hope for the ace to miraculously appear out of nowhere like nothing ever happened.

Time ticked, and no one of interest caught his attention.

Several minutes elapsed, his order was neatly placed before him. It took a couple of seconds for Chris to grab his utensils and dine into the medium rare steak he finds himself ordering every now and then.

Twenty minutes flew, he was hoping for a miracle, even if he had come to embrace reality with much reluctance. Instead, he engrossed himself in the steak, sating his apetite and reminiscing little details about one sharpshooter.

_"It's hard to find a good steak around here, not like back home."_

"Captain."

Mahogany eyes piqued its interest at the mention of the title. Hope, once again, flared itself within his own very being, wanting it to be who he thinks he is. It's him, right? It's got to be him. That was what his conscience and hope said. 

It wasn't.

It never was to begin with.

"We've received new orders."

Something ached, something cracked, and most importantly, something _wept_. And Chris didn't have to drink away his brain cells to know what delicate intangent thing pressured itself in believing what is no longer reality. 

He suppressed the urge to sigh and set down the drink he wasn't quite aware he was taking a sip of. "Alright, I'll be there shortly."

Command's command. He can't say no to them unless he posed a threat. What's past is past, and drowning himself wouldn't exactly save himself.

He stood up from his seat, disregarding his _unfinished_ steak, and strolled out of the dull establishment of a restaurant.

_In the midst of autumn, there stood a solemn man, head bowed down to the tombstone gravely standing erect on the ground. He read its epitome again and again like every visits he had made here as he paid his respect with utmost silence. He passed by others, as well, names he all-too-remembered throughout his life. They were good men; some of them were better than him and some of them were levelled with him. They were once light, but now they were ghostly._

_He knew he was slowly being extinguished. He could feel his strength seeping away from his skin and bones, weakening by time and the lack of will. Even if he eluded death countless of times before, he could sense the weariness corrupting his once youthful mind, pegging for rest. He was tired, really, from all the war, from all the chaos, but when the world's tainted with sin, there's not enough time for a break. There was never enough time._


End file.
